


Call It Even

by arthur_pendragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Canon Era, Denial of Feelings, Epiphanies, Episode: s01e02 Valiant, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Jealous Arthur Pendragon, M/M, Oblivious Arthur Pendragon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 14:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15463299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/pseuds/arthur_pendragon
Summary: In which Arthur must apologise properly for the whole Valiant fiasco and has it in for another knight (innocent this time). Turns out there does exist such an affliction as ‘love at first sight but I hated you but it was actually just UST and now I can’t not have you in my life’.-(written for the Merlin Canon Fest 2018, episode 102: Valiant)





	Call It Even

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to my beta, schweet_heart. all remaining mistakes are mine

“Your _servant_?” Merlin says, disbelief apparent in his voice and on his face. “You sacked me.”

“Now I’m rehiring you.” Arthur’s probably pulling off the casualness a bit _too_ well, all things considered. Merlin will probably snort and then Arthur can have the last word with the chores he thought up seconds before approaching him.

“Nope,” Merlin replies cheerfully, popping the _p_. And before a gawping Arthur can respond, he’s off to join Morgana and Gwen.

* * *

 

“I don’t understand,” Arthur says.

“Quelle surprise,” Morgana answers.

“No, I mean, fuck you, but I really don’t understand. Serving me is an honour. Why would he turn m— it down?”

“Why wouldn’t he? He’s the only one who saw through Valiant and tried to warn you, and you blew your top and sacked him for it. And then you have the balls to sidle up to him and go, _oh, I, the mighty Prince Aah-thur, am too good to be seen drinking with the likes of you_.”

That’s not what Arthur sounds like! “That’s not what I — oi! How d’you know about that?”

Morgana rolls her eyes. Gwen speaks in her stead. “We see him regularly when he’s on his errands for Gaius, my lord, and he told us about it only this morning.”

“What? Why don’t I see him around, too?” That’s just not  _fair_.

“D’you really think he wants to come across your… _friends_ again?” Morgana sneers at him. Arthur uncharitably likens her to a mean old lizard.

“They’re not all bad,” he protests. The worst of them’s only pushed someone into horse dung once. Thrice.

“Oh, I suppose you might be right for once. There’s Dashiell, after all; he seemed to like Merlin a lot. Remember, Gwen? He blushed when he saw Merlin.”

That Dashiell’s a pompous ponce for unrelated reasons, Arthur decides darkly. He’s uninvited to future hunting trips and everything else, ever.

Morgana takes one look at him and snorts. “Just go to him and force the word _sorry_ out your mouth. I think he’ll like that.”

Arthur makes a face and storms off, Gwen and Morgana’s giggles trailing in his wake.

* * *

 

He’s all right without Merlin’s awful service, to be honest. Merlin hadn’t been able to tell a vambrace from a cuisse to save his life. And his idiotic grin in the mornings when he would come to wake Arthur up completely ruined the rest of Arthur’s day, because it was so stupid that he thought about it at the worst of times. There was this one incident in which Merlin had smiled at him when he’d caught his gaze during morning council, and then Uther had asked him, _prince of Camelot_ , in front of all the courtiers, Gaius, and bloody _Morgana,_ why he looked like a layabout who’d just spent in his smalls.

Yeah, he’s better off now. Much better off.

He _could_ do without Morris’s stuttering and shaking, however.

“Oh, good lord, you’ve served me for four years now! How hard is it to pull chainmail over my head?”

“I’m sorry, sire,” Morris stammers, clearly frightened afresh of his new-old master. “I’ll fix that —”

He doesn’t. Arthur has to do it himself, like some sort of commoner.

But at least his breakfast arrives punctually and he gets kitted out before noon. Merlin, the dunderhead, would’ve probably left Arthur’s helmet in the woods along with his bread or something and then laughed about it.

“I expect _you_ see Merlin around, too,” Arthur mutters, more to himself than Morris, but Morris answers anyway.

“Yes, sire, he usually comes along with the stableboys and some of the knights to the tavern every Tyr’s day.”

“ _What_?” Arthur yelps, turning on Merlin— _Morris_. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

The terror on Mer— fuck’s sake, Morris’s face reads as _why would you need to know what Merlin does in his own time_ to Arthur, who turns slightly pink and dismisses the boy.

* * *

 

He’s standing outside Gaius’s door for no reason other than he got a cut on his finger (from turning an evil page in an evil book) that needs urgent seeing to; the bleeding threatens to drain him dry and Camelot needs its prince to have blood in him.

“Ah, yes, Gaius,” he begins royally when the door swings open. “Would you have a salve or ointment, I’m —”

What the _bleeding_ — what the _fucking_ hell is Dashiell doing here?

“I was just leaving,” Dashiell says, smiling at him like a git. “Good to see you, Arthur. Sire.” He bows and fucks off without even waiting for Arthur to reply. Why did Arthur like him again? Yeah, that bloke’s banned from breathing in the same air as him.

“Yes, Arthur? What can I do for you?” Gaius says. Arthur watches helplessly as Dashiell strides away (he’s got fair brown hair and green eyes, such a good complement to Merlin. Not as good a complement as sun-gilt hair and azure eyes — Arthur knows his colour theory), but jerks back to attention at Gaius’s voice and focuses on the physician.

“Injury.” Arthur steps in once Gaius lets him, and sees Merlin sitting at the table with two bowls of stew, the one further from Merlin empty.

“What was he doing in here?” Arthur asks, rounding on Merlin. Merlin shrugs, unable to talk through the food in his mouth. “Why’d you let him have lunch with you? He was _my_ friend first, you know. Nearly shares _my_ station. And you’ll invite _him_ back here for lunch and not —” Oh, bollocks, this isn’t the time or place for epiphanies. Arthur pushes it to the back of his head for now. “And he’s an arse, anyway, why would you even want to hang around him?”

“Arthur, the empty bowl’s mine,” Gaius says. “Sir Dashiell was here to get a crick in his neck looked at.”

Merlin adds, “Bit presumptuous of you to assume I'd let him share my meal. Though I’m sure you wouldn’t have believed me even if I told you the truth, since you’re a giant mistrustful prat.” Then he grins widely at Arthur and turns back to his food.

“You can’t call me that,” Arthur says, automatic.

“Forgive me, _Your_ _Nibs_ ,” Merlin mutters, hair messy and all over the place, utterly distracting. How did one focus on anything while he was around? Arthur frowns, more than a bit confused with, well, himself. (The epiphany at the back of his head clamours for attention, but he pummels it into submission.)

“Where’s the wound, Arthur?”

Arthur looks at Gaius, and silently gives him the finger.

* * *

 

Tyr’s day, was it?

Arthur gingerly steps into the Rising Sun, the hood of his most peasant-like brown cloak up so no one will see his hair and make assumptions. Now, where’s Morris?

He hears stupid laughter at a corner table that he recognises as Merlin’s — the laughter, not the table — and shuffles closer, his task made incredibly difficult by the sheer number of people in the tavern (don’t they have work tomorrow? For goodness’ sake, Uther had (un)just(ly) increased taxes last month, you’d think it’d light a fire under their backsides). Morris, Merlin, his ex-mate _Dashiell_ , and some of the other servants and lower-born knights are squashed around a small table, on top of which rest at least nine tankards of ale. Arthur swallows, making the ultimate sacrifice of putting his pride aside, and lays a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin turns his head and peers up at him — “H’lo,” he says, eyes twinkling, easily recognising Arthur under the hood. He gets up and manages to extricate himself from the noisy group at the table. The group doesn’t notice Arthur, since Dashiell’s animatedly narrating the story of Sir Walter (present at the table), an ice-caked path, and five enthusiastic shepherd’s dogs that had dragged him thirty metres down said path. The story’s admittedly funny. Arthur snorts as he turns away to meet Merlin’s friendly stare.

He clears his throat. “I have something to say to you.”

“I love you, too,” Merlin replies promptly. Arthur splutters. How does Merlin kn—

“I —”

“Ah, look at your face! Priceless. What did you want?”

Arthur, hardened warrior and heir to the throne, takes a deep breath.

“Your service is abysmal, and I’d rather have Morris bring my food up any day of the week.”

“Thanks!”

“Shut up. Just listen.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Almost literally,” Arthur says, feeling his smile break through the stoic expression he was trying _so_ hard to maintain. “But, even through all that, I think you’re the one that should be my servant.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Thanks for telling me what you think. I’ll get back to _Dashiell_ now.” Oh, lord, Merlin’s cottoned onto his je— allergic reaction to the knight. Is Arthur going to pay?

“ _Mer_ lin, don’t be difficult. What I’m trying to say is, I’m _sorry._ I _apologise_. You saved my life, and I shouldn’t have dismissed you from a job that gave you such a good salary.”

“What, I get a salary?”

“Damn it, Merlin — just fucking have a drink with me, all right? I’m buying. And then we’ll call it even, and you can go tell Morris the good news.” Arthur looks away, pink again. Does he get that from his mother? He’s never seen Uther blush in his life. Pigs will fly before Uther goes red in the face. And now Arthur’s rambling to tamp down the trepidation as he waits for Merlin’s reaction. He’s a _prince_! Uther the warmonger’s son! He shouldn’t have to be worried about a _servant’s_ opinion, and oh, look, he’s doing it again.

Merlin watches him, his cheeky grin fading.

“Okay,” he says eventually, while Arthur regrets every decision he’s made after Morgana’s initial taunt. “Join us?”

Arthur’s heart falls. “Rather not.” He waits for Merlin to shrug and squeeze back into the group, currently listening raptly to a stableboy starting a ribald joke (a greedy host, his starving guests, and the pastime of cocksucking), but Merlin defies expectation.

“Right, let’s sit somewhere else, then.” Merlin takes Arthur’s hand, which for some reason unrelated to the epiphany Arthur’s not thinking about, thanks very much, sends sparks and goosebumps up his skin.

“What about _Da_ —” Arthur starts.

“You’re totally trans _parent_ , you know,” Merlin teases. He somehow manages to find an unoccupied table far away from his previous group and close to the barman. “Go on then. Order us a drink.”

“I’m not your servant,” Arthur mumbles, ordering from under his hood anyway.

“I’m happy to resume my job,” Merlin says, once Arthur has in his hands a goblet full to the brim with alcohol of dubious provenance. “And I didn’t mean to make you actually apologise like this.”

“Eh, no, it was Morgana’s doing. Sly tart.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Meh. Lizard-faced if you ask me.”

Merlin perks up. “Great, so you don’t like her and I can do this, then?”

And he stands and leans over the table, and with a palm pushes the edge of the hood up just a bit to reveal (and hopefully touch) some of Arthur’s golden hair, and plants one on him.

A big one. Right on his mouth. A smacker. In front of all the lower town and their mum!

“Treason,” Arthur says, dazed a bit. Laying hands on the prince is treason, right? He can’t quite think straight at the moment. Though Merlin technically laid his lips on him, but shut up, Arthur.

Merlin’s eyes dim a bit at the word, but he winks.

“I’ve wanted to do that ever since you snorted when I called Valiant a creep,” he says. Arthur goes red. Oh, he remembers that time. Trying to resist the wiles of this smiley, endearing, Arthur, _stop._ “And you can’t put me in prison, I’ve been your servant so I’ve already touched you all over before.” And then Merlin himself goes red and buries his face in his hands.

“I might be a bit squiffy,” he moans. “Don’t listen to me.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh and gets to his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow with my breakfast. Don’t be late!”

Merlin squints at him from between his fingers, the cutest fucking thing Arthur’s ever seen, and Arthur suddenly makes the wildest decision of his life.

“And this is how you really kiss,” he continues. He bats Merlin’s hands away from his face/mouth and kisses him properly. Slow and deep, with a hint of tongue because it _might_ be the only chance he’ll get, and also the parting of their lips sounds more lush this way. He breathes Merlin in like one of those degenerates he regularly throws in gaol, pecks the top of his head because he’s also apparently the doting mum he’s never had, and steps back to see if Merlin changed his mind about liking Arthur.

Merlin looks gobsmacked. It’s a good look on him, to be honest. Nice change of pace.

“I could teach you more,” Arthur says, braveheart extraordinaire, “about the kissing. How to, best kinds, when to, and all that. Starting tomorrow, if you want.”

“I do want,” Merlin replies, as Arthur pokes the tip of his nose (it was right there, being tempting; definitely one of the Top Ten Tempting Tips of the Nose Arthur’s Poked). “I’ll be taking detailed, careful notes; a thorough education takes at least four years, Your Nibs!”

“Can’t call me that!” Though, of course, Merlin could call Arthur _any_ thing, even something as horrific as ‘average-looking’ and Arthur would likely go a bit weak inside (of the Merlintalkedtome disease, very contagious — the boy can’t keep his mouth shut).

He leaves the tavern still miraculously unrecognised, looking forward to tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, and the rest of his life with (t)his lippy twit by his side.


End file.
